


Transport

by CaticalRam



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Gratuitous Use of Biology Degree, Reichenbach Falls, Tamora Pierce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:22:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaticalRam/pseuds/CaticalRam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were trying to keep him away from Sherlock. He called up his power and threw it at them. The metal on those reaching hands – rings, bracelets, and watches – jerked away from him, pulling the arms with them.</p>
<p>John clamped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. Was he still there? Was he in reach? Iron in the blood, still. Prosthetic groups, catalase, hemes. He pushed deeper. He was running out of time. Hell, he might already be out of time. </p>
<p>There.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transport

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written any more than this. If I do, it will join this. As of now, this is a standalone - I have a plot in my head but not in my hands. 
> 
> Thanks for your time.

It’s just transport.

 

That’s what echoed through John’s head as he watched his soul fall from the top of St. Bartholomew’s.

It’s just transport.  
Transport.

He was running. As fast as he could. He had to try. He couldn't miss the chance. A bicyclist rammed into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. His head slammed into the pavement, he saw stars.

Transport.

Sherlock.

Transport.

He had to get to Sherlock. He stood up, swaying. He tried to run to the gathering crowd, but he couldn't get his feet under him. John lurched forward and pushed his way through the nurses, bystanders, and doctors. The nurses tried to hold him back, grabbing for his arms.

They were trying to keep him away from Sherlock. He called up his power and threw it at them. The metal on those reaching hands – rings, bracelets, and watches – jerked away from him, pulling the arms with them.

John clamped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. Was he still there? Was he in reach? Iron in the blood, still. Prosthetic groups, catalase, hemes. He pushed deeper. He was running out of time. Hell, he might already be out of time. 

There.

Hands were pulling on him again, pulling him away from Sherlock. But he was already gone, stretching himself down, down, down. He retreated into his core and gathered as much power as he could afford, only leaving a thin vein linking him to his body, then flew to the hand connecting him to Sherlock. This was his last chance to turn back. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He breached the barrier, left his body, and went to find Sherlock.

Nurses, doctors, and bystanders rushed around the two men lying prone on the pavement.

 

-

 

Greg pulled up to St. Bart’s, lights flashing and sirens on. Just down the sidewalk, ambulances and nondescript cars were pulling up. But he passed by the scene without acknowledging it. Many things have crossed his mind since he got the phone call from Molly, none of them positive, and all of them about the woman. Sally was right behind him as he made his way through the gathering crowd, toward the morgue.

 

The call had been hard to understand. But he gathered enough from the fear in her voice, the threats of a man near her, and the crinkle of the wrappers of the Werthers candies she always kept in her pockets – the ones she offered him when he visited her for a case. The phone was in her pocket. He knew that she had him at the front of her contacts list – she had to call him for backup periodically when their consulting detective’s experiments became too extreme.

“Please, just let me go – I have to leave-“

“Why do you think I’m here, girl? You don’t think he knew about you?”

“What, no, you don’t understand. I’m not important, I don’t count. But please, let me go.”

“Sit back down, miss. If you do as you’re told and he does what he’s told, I won’t have to hurt yo-“

It took Greg and Sally a matter of seconds to disarm the man and cuff him. Greg turned to Molly, but saw a swinging door where she had been standing. He glanced back at Sally, and she made a shooing motion at him, gun still aimed at the unknown man’s chest and radio calling for backup at her mouth.  
He turned and ran after Molly, catching her as she reached a side entrance to the hospital. She pushed the door open, he put his hand on her shoulder, and they both froze at the sight in front of them. 

“Oh god…”

 

-

 

When Mycroft arrived at the hospital, his agents were already there, securing a perimeter around the two men on the ground. The medical staff were throwing a fit, but there was nothing they could do. Not really. Mycroft had learned of his brother’s plan just 18 minutes ago. He walked forward, the agents let him through. Blood washed from Sherlock down to his feet in the light drizzle. He shut off his emotions.

He took in the scene. Sherlock crumpled on the ground, not moving. Not breathing. Wound to the head, but it was probably insignificant to the damage to his internal organs and bones – his spine. He fell, that was obvious. He jumped. Again, obvious. Mycroft had known that Sherlock had attachments. That he cared. He’d known and had been happy about it. He had been elated. Those lies he told his brother about caring were just that. Sherlock never took his advice, so he had given some that he didn't want Sherlock to follow. He was so predictable in some ways. Mycroft hadn't predicted this, however. He hadn't predicted that Sherlock would care about those people enough to end. He tore his eyes away from his brother, no longer able to look at him.

He turned, instead, to John. The only injuries that John seemed to have were covered by his hair. Mycroft had watched the live feed fifteen minutes before he had arrived. Sherlock’s fall had been in a blind spot, but the street John had been on was on center from three different angles. The injury couldn't have been serious enough to kill John. Bruises had formed on the side of John’s head since Mycroft had arrived. Bruises were still forming. He bent down, frowning, to feel John’s body for a pulse. Nothing…nothing. There.

“Newport, we require the medical personnel,” he said, addressing the agent standing next to him. He began to shift John away from his brother’s body.

 

-

 

Greg followed Molly as she pushed her way through the crowd. She was muttering rapidly to herself, moving, not with grief or shock, but with a set determination. He vaguely wondered about that, only his practiced professionalism keeping him from swimming away from the present into shock himself. Sherlock, covered in blood, John unmoving at his side. They were in a bloody hospital and there were no doctors saving the two. That could only mean so many things.

He caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s brother kneeling by the consulting detective and his blogger. He watched as Mycroft’s frown turned into mild surprise. He watched him call to a woman in casual clothes behind him. But both Greg’s and Mycroft’s attention snapped to Molly in the next second.

Molly was running toward the men on the ground. She could barely see them through the crowd, but she could see enough. A sliver of silver light was shining through the mob of stupid people in her way. She centered herself, found the crucible that glowed inside her, and let her frustration propel the raw energy out. The people blocking her front, hemming her sides, and pushing at her back fell to the ground. She saw Sherlock, but saw neither the blue glow of life nor the gray absence that was death. In John, she saw a glowing pool flowing from his chest, tangling through the cartilage in his scarred shoulder, twining around his scapula, humerus, radius, and ulna. That string of power flowed straight through John’s hand into Sherlock’s pulse point. Her eyes widened. How hadn't she known? She saw John every week- sometimes every day. How hadn't she seen that he was a mage, too?

She was shocked out of her thoughts by the sight of a man reaching down for John, feeling his pulse (fleeting at best in the trance he’s in, she thought), and moving to remove John’s hand from Sherlock.

“No,” she choked out. Then louder, with power forced into her words, “No, stop!”


End file.
